12/17/09Time wears onwears downprecious heartssouls move throughwalls we've builtthrough waves so highno ship could ever passthimbles on fingersprotected from needlesthat could mendthe crests of reasonbringing the broken sealevel againto feel the subtler rocksand the gentler breezesthat were meant forthis plane of spacethis moment of timeif we surrender to the giftand release the oneswho dove down and leftand the ones who were ripped awaywithout any last words to saythe wisdom of the woundedgrowsmessages from the otherworldreceivedno place to hide

Time wears onwears downprecious heartssouls move throughwalls we've builtthrough waves so highno steamship could ever passthimbles on fingersprotected from needlesthat could mendthe crests of reasonbringing the broken sealevel againto feel the subtler rocksand the gentler breezesthat were meant forthis plane of spacethis moment of timeif we surrender to the giftand release the oneswho dove down and leftand the ones who were ripped awaywithout any last words to saythe wisdom of the woundedgrowsmessages from the otherworldreceivedno place to hide

12/14/09This ugly mirror of bites andbleats heard from the deserted farm wherethe shepherd used his sharpest shearsto cut out the pit in his stomach,and the sheep he namedWorthless and Useless grew long matted coatsand drank each other's milkspoiling the way for the rest of the herd,so now the ugly mirror stares at himwith the seed in her bloody handand its eternal drips fill his glasswith all of the minerals from the ground thatit came from and all of the reflectionsof the sky with it's forming cloudsinto pairs of woolen socksand floating birds on the surface ofhis picture-show drink of earth from belowand fluids from the killinghe gazes down at the air from up there in the clear-if the elements were not enoughto lift up his head from the patterns in the cup's skyand find a good place for his own pit,he might just see a trunk in her waistsome branches in her armssome roots in her feetsome blossoms in her hair. -A

"The Disappearance"

This ugly mirror of bites andbleats heard from the deserted farm wherethe shepherd used his sharpest shearsto cut out the pit in his stomach,and the sheep he namedWorthless and Useless grew long matted coatsand drank each other's milkspoiling the way for the rest of the herd,so now the ugly mirror stares at himwith the seed in her bloody handand its eternal drips fill his glasswith all of the minerals from the ground thatit came from and all of the reflectionsof the sky with it's forming cloudsinto pairs of woolen socksand floating birds on the surface ofhis picture-show drink of earth from belowand fluids from the killinghe gazes down at the air from up there in the clear-if the elements were not enoughto lift up his head from the patterns in the cup's skyand find a good place for his own pit,he might just see a trunk in her waistsome branches in her armssome roots in her feetsome blossoms in her hair.

12/06/09"I'm mad!" the scientist never proclaims,and "death! don't forget about death!"the explorer never reminds,even though the sheer glacier iseleven miles long to it might be realbetter sharpen the edges of skis to makeparallel tracks on hors pistes slopeswhere not to rush but slide back intothe tired third eye's sun stroke absorbsa splash of formaldehyde drops wherepolished ultra-violet lensesof the retractable pocket telescopemagnify strands of ice crystals toinspect the geometry of flattened minutescontracting like deep breaths in high altitudeand slipping into the crevice of biological mourningswhere nature mirrors the mind's captivityon the mountain of hidden clues,one needs a polarized helmet,a temper meter, and a peak filterto melt the snowdrift six feet below."I'm mad!" the scientist never proclaims,and "death! don't forget about death!"the explorer never reminds,even though the sheer glacier iseleven miles long to it might be realbetter sharpen the edges of skis to makeparallel tracks on hors pistes slopeswhere not to rush but slide back intothe tired third eye's sun stroke absorbsa splash of formaldehyde drops wherepolished ultra-violet lensesof the retractable pocket telescopemagnify strands of ice crystals toinspect the geometry of flattened minutescontracting like deep breaths in high altitudeand slipping into the crevice of biological mourningswhere nature mirrors the mind's captivityon the mountain of hidden clues,one needs a polarized helmet,a temper meter, and a peak filterto melt the snowdrift six feet below.

12/05/09an hypnotic sensation

when the quiet owl calls you

to push out

to push up

and get something back

that was not a wheeled toy

to pull around in the driveway

but a distant orb in a new sphere

pulling metallic gloves on

to swing light rods blazing

lines through the air

in liquid galaxies farther away

from earthly terrain your pretty ponies trod

in the red mud of a rhubarb pie

where fork hooves sink and stick

into a cinnamon whinny

leaving your head vibrating

and spinning for zero gravity

like the royal king with claws

like the black panther with a crown

batting his mouse around

with purring delight and growling terror

green eyes lit by his emerald heart

tongue slapping and salivating

messages his noisy stomach

cannot deny the stress lines

of a christmas aura patterns

underneath the smile of a thousand smiles

forever lips have corners

unless opened wide. -Aan hypnotic sensation

when the quiet owl calls you

to push out

to push up

and get something back

that was not a wheeled toy

to pull around in the driveway

but a distant orb in a new sphere

pulling metallic gloves on

to swing light rods blazing

lines through the air

in liquid galaxies farther away

from earthly terrain your pretty ponies trod

in the red mud of a rhubarb pie

where fork hooves sink and stick

into a cinnamon whinny

leaving your head vibrating

and spinning for zero gravity

like the royal king with claws

like the black panther with a crown

batting his mouse around

with purring delight and growling terror

green eyes lit by his emerald heart

tongue slapping and salivating

messages his noisy stomach

cannot deny the stress lines

of a christmas aura patterns

underneath the smile of a thousand smiles

forever lips have corners

unless opened wide.

11/30/09True, I use you as my lighter fluid

for my wet wood

soaking in primary paint splatter

like you used me as your gasoline

to fill your word tank of photographic memories

develop, stop, fix-

you could call it inspiration, too,

instead of sucking and leaching,

I suppose, you can be my source, too,

you see, if you exist or not

in this reality

I wonder if you dare to keep feeding from

my cellar, the one last 1929 Bordeaux reserved

always for you in your nights spent away

like I linger on last spoonfuls

from your meringue pie served on a remote

Rousseau jungle platter hints of

pure extracts

vanilla and coco bean pining for

fingers running through lost paradise

when I see the frightful teeth glowing in

the rum punch the chimpanzee just downed

because the dollars were tasteless

and the jokes were all the same

it’s this blur of a crime

when the banana peels

are the soles of your feet

and I lost track of the thing called

reality when yours became mine

and mine became yours,

even when nature tells me everything,

I still pull the abstract string to my muse of all things.True, I use you as my lighter fluid

for my wet wood

soaking in primary paint splatter

like you used me as your gasoline

to fill your word tank of photographic memories

develop, stop, fix-

you could call it inspiration, too,

instead of sucking and leaching,

I suppose, you can be my source, too,

you see, if you exist or not

in this reality

I wonder if you dare to keep feeding from

my cellar, the one last 1929 Bordeaux reserved

always for you in your nights spent away

like I linger on last spoonfuls

from your meringue pie served on a remote

Rousseau jungle platter hints of

pure extracts

vanilla and coco bean pining for

fingers running through lost paradise

when I see the frightful teeth glowing in

the rum punch the chimpanzee just downed

because the dollars were tasteless

and the jokes were all the same

it’s this blur of a crime

when the banana peels

are the soles of your feet

and I lost track of the thing called

reality when yours became mine

and mine became yours,

even when nature tells me everything,

I still pull the abstract string to my muse of all things.

11/26/09tetrus games

that empty space

that everyone wants to fill

with quick fingers

on buttons and little flashing screens

like they think some jewel of a person

has it any better

like they’ve found something that

you haven’t

something they can

stuff inside

a cannoli or turkey

running around on the field of

pushing and shoving,

and I like it when it’s just me

and not them crowding

the tray I pull down

on the grey plane

with more things

to type on, send and receive

the rolls of scotch tape wrapped

around my wrists shoving seeds

from the harvest into my eyes

sending gong vibrations through my cells

calming the doubts I have but

will always have

until

I see him

the one who could fit my space

the space next to me

that doesn’t need

but just accepts

the snowfall of soul

falling mounds of white

that keep reminding me

there really are gems

that exist way down

underground

hidden where I just can’t see

don’t you see

no one knows

the silence of it all up here

no one knows except me

the proof I could find

no one sees the quiet

I see down there.tetrus games

that empty space

that everyone wants to fill

with quick fingers

on buttons and little flashing screens

like they think some jewel of a person

has it any better

like they’ve found something that

you haven’t

something they can

stuff inside

a cannoli or turkey

running around on the field of

pushing and shoving,

and I like it when it’s just me

and not them crowding

the tray I pull down

on the grey plane

with more things

to type on, send and receive

the rolls of scotch tape wrapped

around my wrists shoving seeds

from the harvest into my eyes

sending gong vibrations through my cells

calming the doubts I have but

will always have

until

I see him

the one who could fit my space

the space next to me

that doesn’t need

but just accepts

the snowfall of soul

falling mounds of white

that keep reminding me

there really are gems

that exist way down

underground

hidden where I just can’t see

don’t you see

no one knows

the silence of it all up here

no one knows except me

the proof I could find

no one sees the quiet

I see down there.

11/16/09The scent of fire still rises off of

my live skin during hot showers,

so many since

scrubbing sea salt and brown sugar

filling new layers

with oils of alphabet minerals and extracts

from plants that she provided with such precision,

the ground beneath she calls to for certain things

like the pool calls me sometimes

when I cast my eyes on a big stone

tied to my foot at the bottom,

something Harold would do,

and I wonder where he is, if there exists

another Harold, would he play dead

with me or paint my eyes black for me

his long, skinny body and glowing face

luminescent like the jellyfish that light up

when brushed any certain way

where bland needs mustard,

it’s never friction when you’re floating in water

and your body is goo,

but they feel the swerve and send lit signals

they knew you were there

in the water with them just passing through

what seemed like a clear way,

and I did meet someone like Harold,

a Welsh novelist wired to a lightning bolt

and there

there he saw me right back

right away

but we were both on our own missions

my ideas on the unseen

his ideas on death

his unhinged knee shook to the rythm of the blues,

the gold shirts and red lights flickered in our eyes,

and the floor seemed to open up beneath our stools

he tipped his hat when I said I didn’t like most people

but I could tell his sense was heightened and

the seat was empty,

but the pool is no where near the ocean’s enthusiasm

and closer to the earthworms and the cracks

in the cement left over from quakes

and shifts she needed to make,

but something left undone

she turns into a different trail of evidence

like the spray of a skunk,

burnt woods I still smell

where I stood there holding the match,

the embers blushing in their teepee of kindling

as the wind from our voices blew through.The scent of fire still rises off of

my live skin during hot showers,

so many since

scrubbing sea salt and brown sugar

filling new layers

with oils of alphabet minerals and extracts

from plants that she provided with such precision,

the ground beneath she calls to for certain things

like the pool calls me sometimes

when I cast my eyes on a big stone

tied to my foot at the bottom,

something Harold would do,

and I wonder where he is, if there exists

another Harold, would he play dead

with me or paint my eyes black for me

his long, skinny body and glowing face

luminescent like the jellyfish that light up

when brushed any certain way

where bland needs mustard,

it’s never friction when you’re floating in water

and your body is goo,

but they feel the swerve and send lit signals

they knew you were there

in the water with them just passing through

what seemed like a clear way,

and I did meet someone like Harold,

a Welsh novelist wired to a lightning bolt

and there

there he saw me right back

right away

but we were both on our own missions

my ideas on the unseen

his ideas on death

his unhinged knee shook to the rythm of the blues,

the gold shirts and red lights flickered in our eyes,

and the floor seemed to open up beneath our stools

he tipped his hat when I said I didn’t like most people

but I could tell his sense was heightened and

the seat was empty,

but the pool is no where near the ocean’s enthusiasm

and closer to the earthworms and the cracks

in the cement left over from quakes

and shifts she needed to make,

but something left undone

she turns into a different trail of evidence

like the spray of a skunk,

burnt woods I still smell

where I stood there holding the match,

the embers blushing in their teepee of kindling

as the wind from our voices blew through.

11/15/09The waterfall’s a white blur in the thicket of burnt thugs,

we’d reach through to see if the story was real

but there was no passage through the stuffed wardrobe

of live woolen oaks and moth-eaten redwoods.

My grandmother’s embroidery sweetened

the obsidian holes

peach daisies and purple clovers planted

on my winter sweaters

what seemed to be a random choir

sung quietly with the rock of the chair

deadly needles

thin threads

chocolate pinwheels on gilded china of painted roses

an unusual allowance

but we shared a naughty tooth

dainty bites into tongue-less layers

of dry cookie and tucked marshmallow

sheets of no tossing,

horse show braids pulled tight on my scalp

and Brahm’s violin concertos louder than our

crunching gravel driveway on Sunday morning.

He taught me how to make him the perfect martini

in his library of suede and oriental,

swording olives from the bottom of his glass

hint of gin budding curiosity

pores open to toasty afternoons of cigars

and wood-burning heat.

The two of us matching

Viennese collars, plaid kilts, patent-leather shoes

polished for the aisle of red velvet cushions,

she never liked her smaller size.

We’d slumber into the yellow light blown from brass uncles

and float away to pinkish flute cousins,

tracing each other’s palms

with our little fingers

signing swirls of affection

jotting down lines of knowing

we knew the way

through the rusty hangers of discord

out of the illusory nibbles of high noon.The waterfall’s a white blur in the thicket of burnt thugs,

we’d reach through to see if the story was real

but there was no passage through the stuffed wardrobe

of live woolen oaks and moth-eaten redwoods.

My grandmother’s embroidery sweetened

the obsidian holes

peach daisies and purple clovers planted

on my winter sweaters

what seemed to be a random choir

sung quietly with the rock of the chair

deadly needles

thin threads

chocolate pinwheels on gilded china of painted roses

an unusual allowance

but we shared a naughty tooth

dainty bites into tongue-less layers

of dry cookie and tucked marshmallow

sheets of no tossing,

horse show braids pulled tight on my scalp

and Brahm’s violin concertos louder than our

crunching gravel driveway on Sunday morning.

He taught me how to make him the perfect martini

in his library of suede and oriental,

swording olives from the bottom of his glass

hint of gin budding curiosity

pores open to toasty afternoons of cigars

and wood-burning heat.

The two of us matching

Viennese collars, plaid kilts, patent-leather shoes

polished for the aisle of red velvet cushions,

she never liked her smaller size.

We’d slumber into the yellow light blown from brass uncles

and float away to pinkish flute cousins,

tracing each other’s palms

with our little fingers

signing swirls of affection

jotting down lines of knowing

we knew the way

through the rusty hangers of discord

out of the illusory nibbles of high noon.

11/08/09Un raconteur as zey say-

ninety-two years

Japanese, German, and French

jokes told with jesting wit,

his lavender wife dozes off in her wheelchair

small flares of delight from time to time,

too much bromide, I assume.

She licks the gold foil from the dark chocolate squares

with more enthusiasm than opening her eyelids

and dribbles coffee ice cream onto her silk blouse.

His red pants and race track tie put some

jovial back into the mint bomb shelter,

air-conditioned to preserve the plastic plants.

Thick-rimmed writer’s glasses,

he went to Stamford and

boarding school back east,

refuses to read the New Yorker zeez days,

downheel as zey say.

He calls her, baby, in the gentlest way,

would she like a Belgian waffle, baby?

She says she doesn’t care.

She doesn’t seem to mind she’s away

somewhere closeby,

but I could tell she would sweep hair from a forehead

the way her smile lines mapped her face.

I let out a hearty laugh during his story

about his ill-tempered polo horse,

she opened her drowsy eyes for a trite-less moment and

gleamed at me from across the synthetic tablecloth,

you have a good laugh, she mumbled.

It’s the one thing I have,

the one thing that won’t grow mold or fly away,

but did she ever stare at the drip in the bath tub?

Je suis un cliché.

From invasions to stables,

a gentleman pushes his lady through the platitude

with so much glee- true allies, true glory-

a novel about love and war and a pill cocktail.Un raconteur as zey say-

ninety-two years

Japanese, German, and French

jokes told with jesting wit,

his lavender wife dozes off in her wheelchair

small flares of delight from time to time,

too much bromide, I assume.

She licks the gold foil from the dark chocolate squares

with more enthusiasm than opening her eyelids

and dribbles coffee ice cream onto her silk blouse.

His red pants and race track tie put some

jovial back into the mint bomb shelter,

air-conditioned to preserve the plastic plants.

Thick-rimmed writer’s glasses,

he went to Stamford and

boarding school back east,

refuses to read the New Yorker zeez days,

downheel as zey say.

He calls her, baby, in the gentlest way,

would she like a Belgian waffle, baby?

She says she doesn’t care.

She doesn’t seem to mind she’s away

somewhere closeby,

but I could tell she would sweep hair from a forehead

the way her smile lines mapped her face.

I let out a hearty laugh during his story

about his ill-tempered polo horse,

she opened her drowsy eyes for a trite-less moment and

gleamed at me from across the synthetic tablecloth,

you have a good laugh, she mumbled.

It’s the one thing I have,

the one thing that won’t grow mold or fly away,

but did she ever stare at the drip in the bath tub?

Je suis un cliché.

From invasions to stables,

a gentleman pushes his lady through the platitude

with so much glee- true allies, true glory-

a novel about love and war and a pill cocktail.

11/07/09I feed the Oleander tree

but for candlelight’s bittersweet grave.

If it’s leaves were just poppies-

instead

both the antivenom and the toxin.

Anyone can paint lilies

play keys and pluck strings

or sing the crescendo of

a Nightingale-

it’s the dense magenta in the buried beet

and the last molar capped in dark fortune

where the bamboo rod casts into

the wormy ground of rites

that turn old into antique,

roe into caviar.

If I could die my skin that hypnotic color

and wrap silk robes around my stem,

the probing of the uncoiling Cobra

would be merely a hallucination

in the hazy den of Opium pipes,

and the charmer’s flutes

could be passed down to someone else

who felt interred

lowered somewhere tight

unfaded

unbleached,

the richest tomb

Cleopatra could have.I feed the Oleander tree

but for candlelight’s bittersweet grave.

If it’s leaves were just poppies-

instead

both the antivenom and the toxin.

Anyone can paint lilies

play keys and pluck strings

or sing the crescendo of

a Nightingale-

it’s the dense magenta in the buried beet

and the last molar capped in dark fortune

where the bamboo rod casts into

the wormy ground of rites

that turn old into antique,

roe into caviar.

If I could die my skin that hypnotic color

and wrap silk robes around my stem,

the probing of the uncoiling Cobra

would be merely a hallucination

in the hazy den of Opium pipes,

and the charmer’s flutes

could be passed down to someone else

who felt interred

lowered somewhere tight

unfaded

unbleached,

the richest tomb

Cleopatra could have.

11/05/09my tragic scarlet

fists of raspberries

from the prickly bushes of

free-falling

is human of course

the only home for a

mind full of scorpio,

an unknown

scent in a foreign picture

no cashmere in loose subtitles

disconnected from the

velvet mouths which

let out butterflies that brush

cheeks into dimples,

a strung alphabet flickers

like flashing ecstasy

from a dim room’s window,

the weeds so natural

to a check-out audience where

a fresh-squeezed pitcher tips into

the whole world sink

but time

time so careful

to not rip the wrapping paper

on predictions of train sets.

I slept of frightful charms on

a bracelet, golden horns and bells

clanging together spitefully

lava thoughts

of unshaven meadows with a view

of the salty chop washing up onto shore,

black tar and broken seashells

stuck to the bottom of my feet.

my turn up to the board,

eleven plus five,

listless drift of white chalk

in the classroom where

pressed handkerchiefs are

pulled out of herringbone suits,

my bloody nose tends to

leak when incense swings dry

and holy water flies yonder

into the closet where the confessional of a girl

trusts but never again,

she wants the sliding door

to open and true wit fall through

like hide-and-seek

sardines in a four-inch bed

covers rolled back slowly to hear the

tip-toeing up the hidden staircase

only best friends can find

the trunk of wigs

accents and lisps

cookies and milk

crossed fingers and winks.my tragic scarlet

fists of raspberries

from the prickly bushes of

free-falling

is human of course

the only home for a

mind full of scorpio,

an unknown

scent in a foreign picture

no cashmere in loose subtitles

disconnected from the

velvet mouths which

let out butterflies that brush

cheeks into dimples,

a strung alphabet flickers

like flashing ecstasy

from a dim room’s window,

the weeds so natural

to a check-out audience where

a fresh-squeezed pitcher tips into

the whole world sink

but time

time so careful

to not rip the wrapping paper

on predictions of train sets.

I slept of frightful charms on

a bracelet, golden horns and bells

clanging together spitefully

lava thoughts

of unshaven meadows with a view

of the salty chop washing up onto shore,

black tar and broken seashells

stuck to the bottom of my feet.

my turn up to the board,

eleven plus five,

listless drift of white chalk

in the classroom where

pressed handkerchiefs are

pulled out of herringbone suits,

my bloody nose tends to

leak when incense swings dry

and holy water flies yonder

into the closet where the confessional of a girl

trusts but never again,

she wants the sliding door

to open and true wit fall through

like hide-and-seek

sardines in a four-inch bed

covers rolled back slowly to hear the

tip-toeing up the hidden staircase

only best friends can find

the trunk of wigs

accents and lisps

cookies and milk

crossed fingers and winks.

10/30/09my dizzy boot straps

frayed from so many turns around

the erratic pocket watch

an estranged momentum

the white paw never could let go

miles of suede tassels with plastic beads

a fringe of swinging pendulums

chiming midnight

with every point of the finger

and ceremony upstaged

doctors of secondhand ticks stopped

to the half hour

tweezing and winding

held up to the ear of sirens and pindrops

on the sterile floor of the waiting room

scrubbed by the fragile hand of a dreamer

who saw fairness in the rainbow suds

left not a trace of folly

no backwards counting could fix

the grease from the motor lines my ever-crooked eyes

more stories packed down deep into sockets

of burnt out firmament

rattling around in the frosted looking-glass

and the hum of the engine fades

as the flash of the last card whizzes by

on those fast-talking tables of mercy

misunderstood spades and hearts

around twelve whole numbers

with more lessons in between.my dizzy boot straps

frayed from so many turns around

the erratic pocket watch

an estranged momentum

the white paw never could let go

miles of suede tassels with plastic beads

a fringe of swinging pendulums

chiming midnight

with every point of the finger

and ceremony upstaged

doctors of secondhand ticks stopped

to the half hour

tweezing and winding

held up to the ear of sirens and pindrops

on the sterile floor of the waiting room

scrubbed by the fragile hand of a dreamer

who saw fairness in the rainbow suds

left not a trace of folly

no backwards counting could fix

the grease from the motor lines my ever-crooked eyes

more stories packed down deep into sockets

of burnt out firmament

rattling around in the frosted looking-glass

and the hum of the engine fades

as the flash of the last card whizzes by

on those fast-talking tables of mercy

misunderstood spades and hearts

around twelve whole numbers

with more lessons in between.

10/29/09The barber said he saw some grey hairs on my head,

but I told him they were silver,

and my mole has been traveling

to the tip of my tongue lately,

a mind of it’s own, in cahoots with my heart, I think..

it’s ambiguous nature

sometimes a beauty mark

sometimes ugly with wiry black hairs,

a line crossed through,

stay away or I’ll turn you into a slimy toad.

Ohhhh, but I feel the surge in my belly

rise north to my eyes,

and I let out a little water- gravity’s always south-

my stubborn dam hoards it’s pool,

but trickles down my river arms

still outstretched to the east and west,

the holy ghost part in the sign of the cross perhaps..

even from the empty sounds of the wind,

when the acoustic strums visit,

the breaking, the cracking,

my virgo moon makes a fist

punching the heavy clouds to the side,

the beavers would understand

all that work to grow some silver streams

from the uprising of a grassy field in a dream.The barber said he saw some grey hairs on my head,

but I told him they were silver,

and my mole has been traveling

to the tip of my tongue lately,

a mind of it’s own, in cahoots with my heart, I think..

it’s ambiguous nature

sometimes a beauty mark

sometimes ugly with wiry black hairs,

a line crossed through,

stay away or I’ll turn you into a slimy toad.

Ohhhh, but I feel the surge in my belly

rise north to my eyes,

and I let out a little water- gravity’s always south-

my stubborn dam hoards it’s pool,

but trickles down my river arms

still outstretched to the east and west,

the holy ghost part in the sign of the cross perhaps..

even from the empty sounds of the wind,

when the acoustic strums visit,

the breaking, the cracking,

my virgo moon makes a fist

punching the heavy clouds to the side,

the beavers would understand

all that work to grow some silver streams

from the uprising of a grassy field in a dream.

10/26/09Dig and dig and find a gem,

Trek and trek and reach the mountaintop

above the sea of thick clouds,

Sail and sail and discover rich land

Dive below deeper and deeper

and find a treasure chest where

the lone octopus reaches around

in the depths for something

it cannot see but only feel

in a desert of paved pores,

strewn beer cans,

and shaved heads,

battered language, soft hands,

tabloids and prescriptions.

The old cowboy tells us about each dusty saddle,

how it was sewn and shaped,

his cattle dwindling,

his pencil sketches belittled by huge canvases

of bold colors and shapes,

the golden arches sprout absurdly on his horizon,

jet skis dot the manmade lake below.

The old blues musician tells us about

his student, the one who really had the talent,

who let go of the techniques

and traditions he passed down to her..

to string a guitar, to thread a saddle,

to plant a seed, to touch the red earth..

the nature in human

is to be a part of the land,

to seek out the good souls which

maintain it’s heartbeat,

to mix like water.

And my spirit owl with it’s long white wings

still visits the music box canyon,

just a simple place of real and true.Dig and dig and find a gem,

Trek and trek and reach the mountaintop

above the sea of thick clouds,

Sail and sail and discover rich land

Dive below deeper and deeper

and find a treasure chest where

the lone octopus reaches around

in the depths for something

it cannot see but only feel

in a desert of paved pores,

strewn beer cans,

and shaved heads,

battered language, soft hands,

tabloids and prescriptions.

The old cowboy tells us about each dusty saddle,

how it was sewn and shaped,

his cattle dwindling,

his pencil sketches belittled by huge canvases

of bold colors and shapes,

the golden arches sprout absurdly on his horizon,

jet skis dot the manmade lake below.

The old blues musician tells us about

his student, the one who really had the talent,

who let go of the techniques

and traditions he passed down to her..

to string a guitar, to thread a saddle,

to plant a seed, to touch the red earth..

the nature in human

is to be a part of the land,

to seek out the good souls which

maintain it’s heartbeat,

to mix like water.

And my spirit owl with it’s long white wings

still visits the music box canyon,

just a simple place of real and true.

10/25/09Two spiders the size of an ogre’s ear,

one on the wall just above the waterline,

one in the reflection just below;

which one floats and bends in the ripples,

which one can I bring my eyelashes right up to

and study it’s long legs for a while,

which one sees my dilated pupils

and tenderly crawls up my arm,

which one crawls faster into it’s hole?

I sink my nose, hold a calm, and see clearly

the soft stones it comes from and buries itself into,

all shades of the same earthy tone.

It speeds furiously,

and even faster, it’s likeness

vanishes into the water’s quake.

The open air flute makes it’s calls to the creatures

who play stillness and flight,

and the ones who grew near here, grow near here,

their unusual nuances so usual,

so camouflaged in the unsteady nurture of

an electric fence whose braided tresses

dangle for the twin arms in the fairest mirror.

Our hair drips, drop by drop, and I admire

the deep turquoise color of my towel and

the stones’ shadows meeting our shriveled feet

as we discuss the difference between

criticism and judgement.

From the water our consciousness breeds and

spreads into the spider’s musical sheet,

and the last rung on the rope of fairy-tale skies

dangles like a loose tooth a gentle tug could pluck

and bury in the garden of mine and yours.

With my curious tongue,

I lick the salt from my tournament knuckles,

and revere the taught silvery threads.

The sliver of the mineral moon brightens

as the salmon clouds quietly float on,

and I bear in mind the steam-train comet

that shot last night’s sky,

for the riddle of the day seems too dry.Two spiders the size of an ogre’s ear,

one on the wall just above the waterline,

one in the reflection just below;

which one floats and bends in the ripples,

which one can I bring my eyelashes right up to

and study it’s long legs for a while,

which one sees my dilated pupils

and tenderly crawls up my arm,

which one crawls faster into it’s hole?

I sink my nose, hold a calm, and see clearly

the soft stones it comes from and buries itself into,

all shades of the same earthy tone.

It speeds furiously,

and even faster, it’s likeness

vanishes into the water’s quake.

The open air flute makes it’s calls to the creatures

who play stillness and flight,

and the ones who grew near here, grow near here,

their unusual nuances so usual,

so camouflaged in the unsteady nurture of

an electric fence whose braided tresses

dangle for the twin arms in the fairest mirror.

Our hair drips, drop by drop, and I admire

the deep turquoise color of my towel and

the stones’ shadows meeting our shriveled feet

as we discuss the difference between

criticism and judgement.

From the water our consciousness breeds and

spreads into the spider’s musical sheet,

and the last rung on the rope of fairy-tale skies

dangles like a loose tooth a gentle tug could pluck

and bury in the garden of mine and yours.

With my curious tongue,

I lick the salt from my tournament knuckles,

and revere the taught silvery threads.

The sliver of the mineral moon brightens

as the salmon clouds quietly float on,

and I bear in mind the steam-train comet

that shot last night’s sky,

for the riddle of the day seems too dry.

10/21/09Thick bangs of live Oak rooting into my eyebrows

keep my October forehead warmer

so I can steep on this high tea

and observe the slick spilling by,

a black cashmere mustache over glossy lips

where a whirlpool tongue awaits

the calligraphy pen

that presses too hard

and blots a signature with a sigh

jabs the black top hat,

some air for the captured specimen

whose only limb can’t climb

nor any suede boot dare kick

the dainty tea set

wobbling by on a varnished cart

over the squeaky floorboards from that room to this

but the smoke stacks that storm the sky

and the tractors that bully the land

still can’t compete with the sparks of an eye

of the black and white hurricane.

Cloaks of velvet line the view into

unrequited love stories tucked away

by the mousey lullabies of

porcelain dolls in lace frocks tied with cherub bows,

pink lips of then and rosy cheeks of forever

sit against the powder blue taffeta of good night

that we slumber into

as we creep up the oak banisters of polished fingerprints

dripping candlesticks from the tables of civility

gripping beating canes from the hat-racks of order,

we try and try to consider what plea

but it’s all ours to burn

the parchment folded up into a plane

that flew right into the sealed felt trap

of the Cottonmouth’s drawl.Thick bangs of live Oak rooting into my eyebrows

keep my October forehead warmer

so I can steep on this high tea

and observe the slick spilling by,

a black cashmere mustache over glossy lips

where a whirlpool tongue awaits

the calligraphy pen

that presses too hard

and blots a signature with a sigh

jabs the black top hat,

some air for the captured specimen

whose only limb can’t climb

nor any suede boot dare kick

the dainty tea set

wobbling by on a varnished cart

over the squeaky floorboards from that room to this

but the smoke stacks that storm the sky

and the tractors that bully the land

still can’t compete with the sparks of an eye

of the black and white hurricane.

Cloaks of velvet line the view into

unrequited love stories tucked away

by the mousey lullabies of

porcelain dolls in lace frocks tied with cherub bows,

pink lips of then and rosy cheeks of forever

sit against the powder blue taffeta of good night

that we slumber into

as we creep up the oak banisters of polished fingerprints

dripping candlesticks from the tables of civility

gripping beating canes from the hat-racks of order,

we try and try to consider what plea

but it’s all ours to burn

the parchment folded up into a plane

that flew right into the sealed felt trap

of the Cottonmouth’s drawl.

10/18/09Three preachers in a cozy room

voices as wide as the American sky

eyes as keen as the eagle

dignity as tall as the mountain top

in the range of humanity,

the soul that left the balcony

of the Lorraine Motel spreads out

like his mushroom bullet

that devastates the fear

they were born into,

those trees won’t grow back

for the tossed ropes

and the burnt crosses

and the tears that followed are

his marathon of miles

dripping from the foreheads

way up in the chiseled mountains

down into the flooded Mississippi

gushing milky brown water where

the ocean’s circulation disperses like

a salt gargle in a rotten mouth,

but white tipped hats still peek on the banks

and the last preacher’s still a witness,

his stories rise

from the fresh steam of that open heart,

his grey hairs are mine,

my infinite balcony.Three preachers in a cozy room

voices as wide as the American sky

eyes as keen as the eagle

dignity as tall as the mountain top

in the range of humanity,

the soul that left the balcony

of the Lorraine Motel spreads out

like his mushroom bullet

that devastates the fear

they were born into,

those trees won’t grow back

for the tossed ropes

and the burnt crosses

and the tears that followed are

his marathon of miles

dripping from the foreheads

way up in the chiseled mountains

down into the flooded Mississippi

gushing milky brown water where

the ocean’s circulation disperses like

a salt gargle in a rotten mouth,

but white tipped hats still peek on the banks

and the last preacher’s still a witness,

his stories rise

from the fresh steam of that open heart,

his grey hairs are mine,

my infinite balcony.

10/17/09My guillotined head restson top of some rusted pitchforkback in Oklahoma where the prairie dollshide and seek down long corridorsto play for eternitynaughty, invisible tricks,the skinny traces of a little girl’s finger on a foggy mirror.My crystal eyeballs stare out across the sinister plainsuntil the crows come around to pick, pick, pickonly real dolls scare them away,the wicked witch of the west said asshe pecked her old cash registernext to the pink cake so pink,and I also met Santa Claus just when Isaid I didn’t believe,he was dressed in Santa Claus Redred corduroys, red shirt, red shoes, and even a long white beardI called after him, excuse me, where are you headed today,and he shoved his SC signet ring in my faceas if I would understand then what he was up to.Spells of magic bounce around these tropical ballroomslike some jolly-faced joke that was inscribed onthe banana leaves of the jungle mural that looms overthe glue of Southern comfort stools untilI found that tiny axe in a bowl of gravythat bubbled haughty cackles and ho-ho-ho’s.My guillotined head restson top of some rusted pitchforkback in Oklahoma where the prairie dollshide and seek down long corridorsto play for eternitynaughty, invisible tricks,the skinny traces of a little girl’s finger on a foggy mirror.My crystal eyeballs stare out across the sinister plainsuntil the crows come around to pick, pick, pickonly real dolls scare them away,the wicked witch of the west said asshe pecked her old cash registernext to the pink cake so pink,and I also met Santa Claus just when Isaid I didn’t believe,he was dressed in Santa Claus Redred corduroys, red shirt, red shoes, and even a long white beardI called after him, excuse me, where are you headed today,and he shoved his SC signet ring in my faceas if I would understand then what he was up to.Spells of magic bounce around these tropical ballroomslike some jolly-faced joke that was inscribed onthe banana leaves of the jungle mural that looms overthe glue of Southern comfort stools untilI found that tiny axe in a bowl of gravythat bubbled haughty cackles and ho-ho-ho’s.

10/16/09Stone the edge of your pocket knife

and carve your name on the tree trunk,

flip it open and closed

and reminisce about the headlines,

the robbery you got away with.

We look up above the reaches of a mind’s eye

to observe the clean bark,

I am not a vampire.

And I see myself wherever I go,

I walk around comforted by so many me’s.

The nice me’s give me some hot tea and a farewell,

but too many me’s I see

gutted pigs, shorn sheep, and I remember

Conrad’s horror, and yes, it’s been said before,

but it’s hard to see much more than my sloth

and my greed and my vanity

all my vices lay before me like a

cushion the soul fell on with a remote control

heater so I don’t have to feel uncivilized

They lay strewn all around us

stuffed with cocaine and nicotine

in between pointy-toothed jaws

that nature intended for the weak

or for the ones who saw a cushion

in the throat of an end.Stone the edge of your pocket knife

and carve your name on the tree trunk

flip it open and closed

and reminisce about the headlines

the robbery you got away with.

We look up above the reaches of a mind’s eye

to observe the clean bark

I am not a vampire.

And I see myself wherever I go

I walk around comforted by so many me’s.

The nice me’s give me some hot tea and a farewell

but too many me’s I see

gutted pigs, shorn sheep, and I remember

Conrad’s horror, and yes, it’s been said before,

but it’s hard to see much more than my sloth

and my greed and my vanity

all my vices lay before me like a

cushion the soul fell on with a remote control

heater so I don’t have to feel uncivilized

They lay strewn all around us

stuffed with cocaine and nicotine

in between pointy-toothed jaws

that nature intended for the weak

or for the ones who saw a cushion

in the throat of an end.

10/14/09Can you have a romance with words

or a love affair with a song?

Can you soar over clouds in pictures

or reach a field of grass in a movie?

Can you drive so many miles in this old car

through turning leaves and rolled-up hay?

This wind-shield is my frame

the picture moves and changes slightly

and I try to forget about the cigarettes

piled-up in the ashtray.

I can see why Reba’s in love with Jesus,

says he lifts her up to Heaven,

sends all her letters to the sky,

they fly on up like used tissues

smeared with lipstick kisses

and burst pillows hugged so tight

making up for lost might.

He’s the only one she can really trust,

He never turns away.

And the old woman in the stone house

nodded to me as I snuck a peek down

her wishing well and sludge

in my rubber clown boots over to the

lone Christmas tree out there on the mud flat.

I zapped each red bulb with my beaming eyes

sending shards of little mirrors all around

until the tree was free of tinsel

and able to see the sun

which should really light up

the open plains that I miss so much.Can you have a romance with words

or a love affair with a song?

Can you soar over clouds in pictures

or reach a field of grass in a movie?

Can you drive so many miles in this old car

through turning leaves and rolled-up hay?

This wind-shield is my frame

the picture moves and changes slightly

and I try to forget about the cigarettes

piled-up in the ashtray.

I can see why Reba’s in love with Jesus,

says he lifts her up to Heaven,

sends all her letters to the sky,

they fly on up like used tissues

smeared with lipstick kisses

and burst pillows hugged so tight

making up for lost might.

He’s the only one she can really trust,

He never turns away.

And the old woman in the stone house

nodded to me as I snuck a peek down

her wishing well and sludge

in my rubber clown boots over to the

lone Christmas tree out there on the mud flat.

I zapped each red bulb with my beaming eyes

sending shards of little mirrors all around

until the tree was free of tinsel

and able to see the sun

which should really light up

the open plains that I miss so much.

10/12/09The Continental DivideYesterday I locked eyes with a lone wolf on the hillside

his sure eyes followed me

his grey fur so beautiful and full,

he made sense to me in this twenty below

but I’ll keep my wisdom to myself,

my truth is flapping like the swinging doors

in that old saloon

and the whisky glass slams on the long wooden bar

shattering no treaty.

There’s crumbs in his beard and

he knows not how to stop

sopping up his yolk with a micro-waved biscuit,

he says with a drawl he wasn’t smart enough

to leave this heavy stool,

and another spirit so restless

fills his head with white lines

and his chest with deep green pulls

black eyes dilated, so lost in the car chase scene,

unaware.

But there’s light behind her emerald eyes and

black feathers touch her bare feet,

she brought us home and told us stories of

the traveling rodeo

and the white-tailed antelope

skinny, tan legs skimming through the grasslands

but slower-paced than I had imagined.

The fly-fishermen on the Big Horn River

use rainbow for Trout but never for a man

so the snow comes and the reservation

quiets down

after the catch and release

he goes back to his flat screen

that one tired waiter won’t watch.

These old diners pass along that small song

of her baby that was born too soon

and dead rabbits now lay along the roadside

once roasted on a fire

way up on the Black Hills

above where the waters divide.Yesterday I locked eyes with a lone wolf on the hillside

his sure eyes followed me

his grey fur so beautiful and full,

he made sense to me in this twenty below

but I’ll keep my wisdom to myself,

my truth is flapping like the swinging doors

in that old saloon

and the whisky glass slams on the long wooden bar

shattering no treaty.

There’s crumbs in his beard and

he knows not how to stop

sopping up his yolk with a micro-waved biscuit,

he says with a drawl he wasn’t smart enough

to leave this heavy stool,

and another spirit so restless

fills his head with white lines

and his chest with deep green pulls

black eyes dilated, so lost in the car chase scene,

unaware.

But there’s light behind her emerald eyes and

black feathers touch her bare feet,

she brought us home and told us stories of

the traveling rodeo

and the white-tailed antelope

skinny, tan legs skimming through the grasslands

but slower-paced than I had imagined.

The fly-fishermen on the Big Horn River

use rainbow for Trout but never for a man

so the snow comes and the reservation

quiets down

after the catch and release

he goes back to his flat screen

that one tired waiter won’t watch.

These old diners pass along that small song

of her baby that was born too soon

and dead rabbits now lay along the roadside

once roasted on a fire

way up on the Black Hills

above where the continents divide.

10/11/09better check under your motel bed

an animal totem may be lurking

eyes glowing in-between the spring mattress

and the hunter green wall-to-wall carpeting

like the road’s edges tonight

our headlights

a splash of the spoon

dipping into a broth of antelopes and rabbits

these Badlands speak tongues of mine

from their velvety passages

of the sleeping gnome’s pockets

he’s under these funny trees

and then all the cities of stars

that start at the bottom of the sky’s dome

like someone shook that plastic toy

santa claus gave you

in that mall where your sister got lost

and you kept it on your shelf

for so long that the stars fell

into a blanket of snow

and the night’s only lights

were their wild eyes.better check under your motel bed

an animal totem may be lurking

eyes glowing in-between the spring mattress

and the hunter green wall-to-wall carpeting

like the road’s edges tonight

our headlights

a splash of the spoon

dipping into a broth of antelopes and rabbits

these Badlands speak tongues of mine

from their velvety passages

of the sleeping gnome’s pockets

he’s under these funny trees

and then all the cities of stars

that start at the bottom of the sky’s dome

like someone shook that plastic toy

santa claus gave you

in that mall where your sister got lost

and you kept it on your shelf

for so long that the stars fell

into a blanket of snow

and the night’s only lights

were their wild eyes.

10/05/09Twenty degrees and dusted with snow

this old mining town entices the wanderering eye

with bursting bulbs of blackjack

promises of long legs to

wrap around your body and hold your hand tight

at the table of dirty games

or maybe behind a closed door,

after all, the emptiness can really get to you

the hunt’s in the trunk and the rush is History.

We walk along an acid-trip rug static and stained-glass

light fixtures highlighting our booth of factory-stitched upholstery

decorated with motorcycles and maroon vinyl.

She brings two plates, no not a scone, but some fried dough,

her mullet is blonde, she takes a long hard drag

while pouring an endless cup of coffee

and a red-faced Mr. Big Truck sips his whisky

at the end of the lonely corridor of slot machines

ching-ching, look at that pretty thing, come her little lady,

come here big man, dressed all in your camouflage,

you must be tired after a long day of huntin’ fer trophies

of bison and antelope to hang on the wall

chandeliers of antlers

python skin tracks the molding

filling every inch of bare bone.Twenty degrees and dusted with snow

this old mining town entices the wanderering eye

with bursting bulbs of blackjack

promises of long legs to

wrap around your body and hold your hand tight

at the table of dirty games

or maybe behind a closed door,

after all, the emptiness can really get to you

the hunt’s in the trunk and the rush is History.

We walk along an acid-trip rug static and stained-glass

light fixtures highlighting our booth of factory-stitched upholstery

decorated with motorcycles and maroon vinyl.

She brings two plates, no not a scone, but some fried dough

her mullet is blonde, she takes a long hard drag

while pouring an endless cup of coffee

and a red-faced Mr. Big Truck sips his whisky

at the end of the lonely corridor of slot machines

ching-ching, look at that pretty thing, come her little lady

come here big man, dressed all in your camouflage

you must be tired after a long day of huntin’ fer trophies

of bison and antelope to hang on the wall

chandeliers of antlers

python skin tracks the molding

filling every inch of bare bone.

10/04/09Transitions

into Nevada

waving goodbye to namaste and karma

straight into pumping iron,

a new dynamic,

nothing soft about the cross.

A sharp, whipping wind,

white caps to port,

down the slope

into the vast purple valley

held down by the heavy open sky.

Our handsome pilot

from the backyard ponds of North Carolina

looks up at his desert air space

with his clear blue eyes, his sure vision,

but not his own sky,

he shares it with us,

the forest of fighter jets,

slick swords, painted shields,

a red star on black,

Hornets and Hawkeyes,

Vipers and Tomcats,

a closet of uniforms, green and tan,

commanders and majors on

operations and missions..

A malfunction he noticed

before the flight,

his friend, an ejection too late.

To almost die once a month

what used to be once a week,

To land a fifty million dollar plane

onto an aircraft carrier

in the middle of the ocean

at night.

The real top gun,

a Lieutenant in the Navy,

trust,

trust in the chain,

crawl-walk-run,

In memory of

the dream of a five-year-old boy

whose

mountain lion always trails above

whose

great white shark always trails below.Transitions into Nevada

waving goodbye to namaste and karma

straight into pumping iron

a new dynamic

nothing soft about the cross.

A sharp, whipping wind

white caps to port

down the slope

into the vast purple valley

held down by the heavy open sky.

Our handsome pilot

from the backyard ponds of North Carolina

looks up at his desert air space

with his clear blue eyes, his sure vision

but not his own sky

he shares it with us

the forest of fighter jets

slick swords, painted shields

a red star on black

Hornets and Hawkeyes

Vipers and Tomcats

a closet of uniforms, green and tan

commanders and majors on

operations and missions..

A malfunction he noticed

before the flight

his friend, an ejection too late.

To almost die once a month

what used to be once a week

To land a fifty million dollar plane

onto an aircraft carrier

in the middle of the ocean

at night.

The real top gun

a Lieutenant in the Navy

trust

trust in the chain

crawl-walk-run

In memory of

the dream of a five-year-old boy

whose

mountain lion always trails above

whose

great white shark always trails below.

10/03/09I stared at the trees defending us from the bright light

the black & white finch zips home to a dusty branch

a few hours of silence

the gardener calls me hermosa

and wants to know what we we’re writing

I tell him poesia

her hand pokes at her eggs, the other scribbling rhymes

a copy of “Where the Sidewalk Ends” synchronistically appears

the pro golfer comes to mind

“when the left brain and the right brain work together” she says

and we say “or perhaps the heart and mind”

I find the best room in the house

a faded rug of half scholar, half geenie

worn down from all the debates and love-making

two wishes used up

a piano, a ukelele, elephants, nudes, and totems

every shade of peach in the pencil jar

that old saying needn’t be repeated.

I toasted some sourdough and smeared it with homemade apricot jam,

“bend down low let me tell you what I know”

they don’t wear socks

“I feel like burning down a church when you know the preacher is lyin’,”

with speakers so clear and loud,

the more you feel the essence of the squeeze.

U2 October plays, needle follows its circular path to the center

of an apple peeled round round to the core, too, also, to you.

Crunchy leaves crackling like

the old records who skip

along the yellow brick

so the reggae music jogs along

a scratchy pulse.

A lioness, blonde as the hills

the sunset in her eyes

sets in the West

in the company of chimes.I stared at the trees defending us from the bright light

the black & white finch zips home to a dusty branch

a few hours of silence

the gardener calls me hermosa

and wants to know what we we’re writing

I tell him poesia

one hand pokes at her eggsthe other scribbling rhymes

the pro golfer comes to mind

when the left brain and the right brain work together

or perhaps the heart and mind

I find the best room in the house

a faded rug of half scholar, half geenie

worn down from all the debates and love-making

two wishes used up

a piano, a ukelele, elephants, nudes, and totems

every shade of peach in the pencil jar

that old saying needn’t be repeated.

I toasted some sourdough and smeared it with homemade apricot jam,

bend down low let me tell you what I know

they don’t wear socks

I feel like burning down a church when you know the preacher is lyin’

with speakers so clear and loud

the more you feel the essence of the squeeze.

U2 October plays next

needle follows its circular path to the center

of an apple peeled round round to the core back to you.

Crunchy leaves crackling like

the old records who skip

along the yellow brick

so the reggae music jogs along

a scratchy pulse.

A lioness, blonde as the hills

the sunset in her eyes

sets in the West

in the company of chimes.

4/22/09una revolucion de muerteblack kettlesunbearable whistles andhigh flames underneathbitten lipsmy hands, empty butterfliesin front of the projectorthe turning reelsnaps over and overno one laughs at simple shapesand silent films anymorethere are only a few whostill sing about flores negrasso manythey cover the tiles of thislittle kitchen flooruna revolucion de muerteblack kettlesunbearable whistles andhigh flames underneathbitten lipsmy hands, empty butterfliesin front of the projectorthe turning reelsnaps over and overno one laughs at simple shapesand silent films anymorethere are only a few whostill sing about flores negrasso manythey cover the tiles of thislittle kitchen floor

4/16/09I was a dollfushia and yellow ribbonsblack lace and gold coinspassed down fromgeneration to generationkept in glass cases awayfrom the sun and airthe brown-skinned ladiesin the workshopstitched me andembroidered red flowerson my dress andbraided my hairjust sothe last timeI sat on the shelfthe eldest brotherwas tall enough tosee me every timehe walked to his bedroomin that sandy housewith oatmeal and peach-coloredwalls and wicker chairshe knew about hismoorish bloodand saw something in methat reminded himof some lost treasureor forgotten rhymesomething he was trying touncover about himselfbut he never knewquite what it wassometimes he wouldpretend that I was hisbut my eyes were fixed andmy seams kept tighthe knew I was thereto tell him somethingto give him a clueas if I were able to speakso he started to starewith more determinationand kept wishing hecould understand meas time passedhe decided to go offon his ownknowing deep downthat I gave him the secretin the very beginningI was a dollfushia and yellow ribbonsblack lace and gold coinspassed down fromgeneration to generationkept in glass cases awayfrom the sun and airthe brown-skinned ladiesin the workshopstitched me andembroidered red flowerson my dress andbraided my hairjust sothe last timeI sat on the shelfthe eldest brotherwas tall enough tosee me every timehe walked to his bedroomin that sandy housewith oatmeal and peach-coloredwalls and wicker chairshe knew about hismoorish bloodand saw something in methat reminded himof some lost treasureor forgotten rhymesomething he was trying touncover about himselfbut he never knewquite what it wassometimes he wouldpretend that I was hisbut my eyes were fixed andmy seams kept tighthe knew I was thereto tell him somethingto give him a clueas if I were able to speakso he started to starewith more determinationand kept wishing hecould understand meas time passedhe decided to go offon his ownknowing deep downthat I gave him the secretin the very beginning

4/14/09la vie en rosenever as wild asit may seem by daybut just the waynature intendedto greet those in needof a rosein need of theirbright bluethe darker, the deeperthe purplethe lighter, the easierto let goand assume the roleof Beatriceher subplot brewingonly she broughtseven more flowersto the lotus pondand kept her disguiseof spright messengerdisappearing into the woodsjust to reappear with somethingnew to bring to herheifer of the dawnher quick feet and constancein a black cloak andthe noisy ratsthat she swings aroundby the tail and throwsinto the bloody bathto rot with the lazy carcassesshe's staring upat the lord of the fliestongue out andlicking her fingertipssalivating and moaningthe sneaky ravensand slow moose circlingthis wicked witch of the eastwho dances with the earth,wind, and firein cahootswith those native drumsto spread the powerthat dwells down wherethe wild things areand in her lucid nighttimeshe stands on her headover where the sidewalk endsla vie en rosenever as wild asit may seem by daybut just the waynature intendedto greet those in needof a rosein need of theirbright bluethe darker, the deeperthe purplethe lighter, the easierto let goand assume the roleof Beatriceher subplot brewingonly she broughtseven more flowersto the lotus pondand kept her disguiseof spright messengerdisappearing into the woodsjust to reappear with somethingnew to bring to herheifer of the dawnher quick feet and constancein a black cloak andthe noisy ratsthat she swings aroundby the tail and throwsinto the bloody bathto rot with the lazy carcassesshe's staring upat the lord of the fliestongue out andlicking her fingertipssalivating and moaningthe sneaky ravensand slow moose circlingthis wicked witch of the eastwho dances with the earth,wind, and firein cahootswith those native drumsto spread the powerthat dwells down wherethe wild things areand in her lucid nighttimeshe stands on her headover where the sidewalk ends

4/08/09purple syrupoozing down her chindropped teaspoonsand satin slippersshe calls itthe fever of the foolspieces of lintbits of debriscamoufalged in the bristlesof the oriental rugrolled-upshaken suspensionof backlit frustrationhesitant glimmerslow to travelin the eyes of her hurricanethe gloves of the mimeunrollfor the soles of perfectiona cold handon the foreheadof unrestpurple syrupoozing down her chindropped teaspoonsand satin slippersshe calls itthe fever of the foolspieces of lintbits of debriscamoufalged in the bristlesof the oriental rugrolled-upshaken suspensionof backlit frustrationhesitant glimmerslow to travelin the eyes of her hurricanethe gloves of the mimeunrollfor the soles of perfectiona cold handon the foreheadof unrest

4/07/09Apollo's snakeyexcuses like twin mountainsone on each sidea stretched-out perspectivefrom a crystal ballon starched white linenwindowsills of porcelainfilled with syntheticapples and figsto amusethe retired bow and arrowwho can see from the cornerof his eyethat crow hoveringover the carrionbefore the passagehe was too scared to heedThe Oracle's prophecythe only ones whomake it throughare the bravest of allthose who face their worstfearsand see themselvesnakedin the face of the third mountainwhere the third piglives hidden amongThe Treesand The Springunfortunate fortuneof the liarApollo's snakeyexcuses like twin mountainsone on each sidea stretched-out perspectivefrom a crystal ballon starched white linenwindowsills of porcelainfilled with syntheticapples and figsto amusethe retired bow and arrowwho can see from the cornerof his eyethat crow hoveringover the carrionbefore the passagehe was too scared to heedThe Oracle's prophecythe only ones whomake it throughare the bravest of allthose who face their worstfearsand see themselvesnakedin the face of the third mountainwhere the third piglives hidden amongThe Treesand The Springunfortunate fortuneof the liar

4/06/09untitled screams of adeceptive knightin hammered armorprovoking the pigment-filledneedle to press harderpuncturingblack tire marksinto the skinof a game-show hostwho is known far and widefor flipping the coin ofdouble-sided smilesno shadowsand slapyou winbuthis teeth grind at nightdown to the nerveendings and beginningsput under the pillowof disbeliefawake to find no heads or tailsbut the toothno one toldyour mother abouta test of the suspicious childuntitled screams of adeceptive knightin hammered armorprovoking the pigment-filledneedle to press harderpuncturingblack tire marksinto the skinof a game-show hostwho is known far and widefor flipping the coin ofdouble-sided smilesno shadowsand slapyou winbuthis teeth grind at nightdown to the nerveendings and beginningsput under the pillowof disbeliefawake to find no heads or tailsbut the toothno one toldyour mother abouta test of the suspicious child

4/04/09a tyrant's rageraised to the top of the boney mastthe keel so far belowbackhanded waves of thoughtthis way and that waybullied by the bookthe pencil and rulerforgetting that he once brokea silent tacka weak tiller pulledto the chestunseen admiral windsthe father-figured sortpacified by the lullan air-filled egoleading someone into theirtriangle of the appealed raceawards metallican angle to the sunsparked in the weedsof an undercurrentuncontrolled switchesdeletedeletestill there

4/05/09Sunday morningswallowing gulps fromthe baths of puritymouthfuls of soaplavender and daisiesandsnip snipthere you goall better nowsunburnt and chappedreach for the ointmentgreasy wheel slipsto the other side of thespoke, foot caughttopple into cool muddown-gazed droolfingers like earthwormsexploring the gritof an unshaven whoremoist from the underground poolsan accident of the blinded bat

2/04/09reason + gravity = fear

reason - gravity = outer space

outer space - reason = fantasy

1/20/09fever dreams of red and goldwhat logic behind an eyelidundesignated in moldthe mouse's tail, the fireflyevade the darkest time of nightsisters of sound, so steadfast and purefestivals of immortalitycircles and streams demure12/15/08schizophrenic heartwhy is it so hard to losesomeone I never hadbecause his words meant so muchbecause I wanted to kiss his lipsbecause of his messy handwritingbecause his voice hit my chestlike a tidal waveI was sucked into the swellof sweet intentionsand forced outcomesI drowned in surrealismand was shot by free willwhat could have beensomething realsomething beautifulmaybe it was all just a fantasybut that’s who I amand that’s my own truthI still believe in youand your schizophrenic heart

12/14/08the soap is all over the floorfrom the bubbles I blewI thought you were strong enoughhopes of a grandfather clockI thought you were passionate enoughlet down againthe hand reachesto help me off the ferris wheelwhy do I do thisnot one stoneweightless cloudsif crying were a remedyif dying were a solutionthat’s what it feels likecreul insanitydisbelieffairy-tales written about men with long armsby women with longer onesand I could go onbut it seems like a wastewords of powderpulverized treesthe key was tossedinto the wellclanging against the othersscattered aboutin anticipation of the next lunar eclipse

the soap is all over the floorfrom the bubbles I blewI thought you were strong enoughhopes of a grandfather clockI thought you were passionate enoughlet down againthe hand reachesto help me off the ferris wheelwhy do I do thisnot one stoneweightless cloudsif crying were a remedyif dying were a solutionthat’s what it feels likecreul insanitydisbelieffairy-tales written about men with long armsby women with longer onesand I could go onbut it seems like a wastewords of powderpulverized treesthe key was tossedinto the wellclanging against the othersscattered aboutin anticipation of the next lunar eclipse

12/13/08their doubt for the storya cold hand under my skirtcreeps up my thighsrough fingers snag my stockingsrunning like gravitydown past my anklesthe layer between skin and spacepulled apartby the agnosticmy knees press togetherwords of faith screamedholding on to the hemtheir doubt for the storya cold hand under my skirtcreeps up my thighsrough fingers snag my stockingsrunning like gravitydown past my anklesthe layer between skin and spacepulled apartby the agnosticmy knees press togetherwords of faith screamedholding on to the hem

12/08I wanna throw you up against a snow bankso all you see is white and meI wanna build a snow castleand crawlinside of it with youand kiss you iridescentlyI wanna shove snow in your faceand down your shirtand lick it offtil my tongue sticks to yoursand we melt the snowand sink together

12/04/08Like shards of glassfalling in slow motioncutting flesh along the waybody and blood on our tonguesto remind us of his sacrificefor the good of the wholethe rose and the thornbut I dreamt of the futurepeering through an oval windowmy hand in yoursbelow the fields of greenand the sun and the stringslittle messageshis soul, the gate-keeperLike shards of glassfalling in slow motioncutting flesh along the waybody and blood on our tonguesto remind us of his sacrificefor the good of the wholethe rose and the thornbut I dreamt of the futurepeering through an oval windowmy hand in yoursbelow the fields of greenand the sun and the stringslittle messageshis soul, the gate-keeper

11/22/08running like the bullsthrough the valley of clockssmall black notestraveling as close as can bea singleness of purposeunder the commandof Diotima's breathwithin these parallel linesthe road that was meantfor the pitch of an oboerunning like the bullsthrough the valley of clockssmall black notestraveling as close as can bea singleness of purposeunder the commandof Diotima's breathwithin these parallel linesthe road that was meantfor the pitch of an oboe

11/13/08when the light comes from the sideand illuminates your two eyesI can see the shadows of your lasheslike nettles pointing their way out to stingsadness droops underneaththe lid of your absent starethe fervor of a blink so adamantabout strong and ready stakesyou turn toward the mirror on the wallpupils widening like the great abysssilhouette breathing quietlyseconds fall to the floor like penniesrolling along underneath the bedthe low rumble nudges your shoulderturn around to the immediate shoreflood the cavities of burdenwith the silver of a swanwhen the light comes from the sideand illuminates your two eyesI can see the shadows of your lasheslike nettles pointing their way out to stingsadness droops underneaththe lid of your absent starethe fervor of a blink so adamantabout strong and ready stakesyou turn toward the mirror on the wallpupils widening like the great abysssilhouette breathing quietlyseconds fall to the floor like penniesrolling along underneath the bedthe low rumble nudges your shoulderturn around to the immediate shoreflood the cavities of burdenwith the silver of a swan

11/05/08crack my spine and fix my posturestare at my ancestors hanging on the wallthe carriage awaits close the curtainscall the messenger who sends the telegramannouncing the baptism of the advantagedwooden wheels over cobblestonesrock him awake to protestthe hidden layers of brushstrokesthe rosary beads and lace fallagainst his snowy bonnetto pacify and veil the glareof her fairnesscrack my spine and fix my posturestare at my ancestors hanging on the wallthe carriage awaits close the curtainscall the messenger who sends the telegramannouncing the baptism of the advantagedwooden wheels over cobblestonesrock him awake to protestthe hidden layers of brushstrokesthe rosary beads and lace fallagainst his snowy bonnetto pacify and veil the glareof her fairness

11/03/08my window feels the pebbles you throwthat we pieces from the tabletthe ancient creed was written onjust a light tapping like the sound of rainhelping me rest but audible enoughto remember the testamentIn the morning I peer below for the proofbut the rubble does not revealand the glass is the only witnessmy window feels the pebbles you throwthat we pieces from the tabletthe ancient creed was written onjust a light tapping like the sound of rainhelping me rest but audible enoughto remember the testamentIn the morning I peer below for the proofbut the rubble does not revealand the glass is the only witness

11/01/08your eyelashes flitter like a mothdesperate for the lighttoo close but not enoughthat sound hits your chest like a bulletflying through the air of fictionfilling our lungs with imagination the thronepretend not to knowbut the middle eye leaks toxic tearsyou only see the onenothing you can do as your flesh burns to greywhite lights nowhere else to goyour eyelashes flitter like a mothdesperate for the lighttoo close but not enoughthat sound hits your chest like a bulletflying through the air of fictionfilling our lungs with imagination the thronepretend not to knowbut the middle eye leaks toxic tearsyou only see the onenothing you can do as your flesh burns to greywhite lights nowhere else to go

10/30/08will you tell me a storyI'm not sure I believeis it romance to pineis it attachment to grievethe princess has faintedthe unicorn has stalleddon't try to wake hertoo noble to scaldplease drink this potionit turns everything pinksprinkle it on the feastbefore the moon sinkswill you tell me a storyI'm not sure I believeis it romance to pineis it attachment to grievethe princess has faintedthe unicorn has stalleddon't try to wake hertoo noble to scaldplease drink this potionit turns everything pinksprinkle it on the feastbefore the moon sinks

10/27/08brackish pool in my skullrebellious crosscurrents awrya surge, a suctionsand and silt suspendedmy nails turn blackthrough soil and rockthe path of an earthwormI heard of a fountainwhere sediment fallseasing the flowrestoring the viewbrackish pool in my skullrebellious crosscurrents awrya surge, a suctionsand and silt suspendedmy nails turn blackthrough soil and rockthe path of an earthwormI heard of a fountainwhere sediment fallseasing the flowrestoring the view

10/25/08I've lit my lanternthe cobwebs are gonebut the floors are creakingand the hallways are longYou wait for meat the edge of the wellI can hear you breathinglike an echo of a shellThe bathtub is overflowingwater spills through the crackstrickling down to the sourcethe silent stream so blackI've lit my lanternthe cobwebs are gonebut the floors are creakingand the hallways are longYou wait for meat the edge of the wellI can hear you breathinglike an echo of a shellThe bathtub is overflowingwater spills through the crackstrickling down to the sourcethe silent stream so black

10/07/08head is in the cloudsreading paragraphs overand over and overforgot an appointmentlost my keysgot locked out of my apartmentat midnighthad to trek back into the citythrough the snowand sleep in my friend's queen-sized bedwithout a toothbrushwatched Wilco doc, nice-n-aestheticbut kinda boringbut I don't careI like clouds, toomaybe I need to go into a caveand not come out for a whilehead is in the cloudsreading paragraphs overand over and overforgot an appointmentlost my keysgot locked out of my apartmentat midnighthad to trek back into the citythrough the snowand sleep in my friend's queen-sized bedwithout a toothbrushwatched Wilco doc, nice-n-aestheticbut kinda boringbut I don't careI like clouds, toomaybe I need to go into a caveand not come out for a while